A Bouquet of Lilies and Irises
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: DMHP Slash. On his way to a rendezvous one foggy morning, Draco, bringing with him a bouquet of white and blue, has another chance encounter on the Knight Bus with a certain someone drenched in dew.


Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

**A Bouquet of Lilies and Irises**

Hazy fog had fallen over the city like the white satin veil masking the visage of a blushing bride, obscuring the shrewd face of reality and leading its dwellers to the land of the mystic, a reminiscence to the era of gaslight and poor house and horse-drawn hansoms. The mixed panorama of the ancient and the modern was like a blurry mirage in the desert, giving off an impression that the flow of time had warped.

It was one of those days when one would expect a gentleman killer leisurely strolling out from one of the hidden side streets, or a dogged inspector giving chase to the scent of clues, or a grave robber busily at work in a deserted cemetery.

On the top deck of the purple Knight Bus, a lone figure clad in black was sitting by the cherry-wood window, his face angular and sharp as if carved by a razor-blade, moist blond hair fell over his forehead in mild disarray. Leaning his elbow against the window sill, he looked out at the misty scenery beyond the glass with those silver eyes of his.

A large bouquet of flowers was laid on the winged chair beside him, hazardously hanging near the edge of the seat. Casting a glance at the bouquet, he brought it back to safety and stared intently at it. Lilies, snapdragons, chrysanthemum, delphinium orchids, blue irises -- it was an explosion of white accented with sparks of profound blue, all wrapped in simple brown paper; the intended recipient was ill-suited for passionate red or naive pink or jealous yellow.

"Nice flower. What's the occasion?" came a spirited voice from somewhere behind him.

Stiffened momentarily at the painfully familiar voice, Draco Malfoy shifted his gaze to the side, and beheld the smiling face of Harry Potter, who was gazing down at him, eyes of summer meadow shining with cheer. His raven hair and casual attire were drenched in morning dew; it was as though he had just emerged from the mist.

As Harry propped down onto the upholstered chair beside him, Draco asked as calmly as he could, unwilling to let his startlement be shown, "You don't remember?"

"Sorry." Harry offered Draco an apologetic smile in return, his expression softened as he contemplated Draco's worn visage. "How are you?"

"The usual," Draco replied and deliberately averted his gaze. "_Pretending to be good and good at being bad_, as a certain individual once said."

"Ah, you remembered." There was an unmistakable note of amusement in Harry's voice.

"Unlike you, I have a good memory." _Almost too good, _Draco added dryly in his mind.

"Ouch." Harry blinked as if his feeling was hurt, but his playfully affectionate tone spoke otherwise, a voice which brought to Draco a sliver of warmth and nostalgia. "What, being sarcastic is still your idea of a civilised conversation? Seriously, you haven't changed at all, not even your choice of clothes. While I admit black looks fetching on you, it's so bloody depressing."

Cradling his chin in his palm, Draco raised an eyebrow in bemusement. "How rare it is to hear a compliment from you. Although, a touch of subtlety wouldn't hurt."

So used to Draco's sardonic way was Harry that he simply laughed it off. "I'm hopeless with word games, you know that."

"Yes, I know." Inevitably Draco's gaze rested upon Harry. Those lush green eyes of Harry's were of the same shade as he had remembered them, if slightly clouded. With a pang, he found they had lost none of their expressiveness of old, but no longer could they reflect his silhouette in their depths.

A spell of silence was cast over them as the bus zoomed across the bridge over the Thames. The sound of whizzing motors could almost be mistaken for the pitter-patter of raindrops striking the pavement, the cursed melody Draco had grown to hate. And Harry, seeing the morose knot etched onto Draco's brow, raised a hand as if wanting to smooth out the creases. After a beat of hesitation, he clutched his fist and dropped his hand in resignation.

"You look tired," was all Harry said, conveying familiarity unshrouded and concealing intention unrealised.

Draco took several seconds to gather his thoughts, then replied placidly, "I've been working on a case is all." An Auror -- that was Draco's current occupation. There was a certain irony in this; for it had neither been his aspiration nor his ambition that had steered him towards this path.

A frown had furrowed onto Harry's forehead; an exasperated sigh escaped from Harry's mouth. "And knowing you, you've probably spent nearly every waking hour on the case and neglected your meal. You're going to break down long before you solve the case, you know."

Casting a withering glance at his companion, Draco crossed his arm before his chest in mild indignation. "And you don't suppose I will solve the case before then? How little faith you have in me."

"I've never doubted your capability. I just feel like acting the part of an overbearing mother hen for once." Wryly Harry grinned, though a shadow of ruefulness had marred his cheerful facade.

"I would rather be spared from such unsightly imagery," Draco remarked stoically; nevertheless he could feel a tug at the corner of his lips, a quirk of a smile too quick for the eye to see.

Harry shrugged, then turned to look beyond the window and got a passing glimpse of a certain familiar-looking intersection. Fond memories of their adolescent caprice resurfaced from the corner of his mind. "I wonder if the old fish-and-chips place is still there," Harry mused aloud, speaking more to himself than to Draco.

"The owner sold it; the place was turned into a cafe," Draco replied briskly while surveying Harry's profile.

Liquid green orbs flashed fleetingly as though they caught the light. Slowly turning away from the window, Harry stared upwards at the elaborate wooden moulding on the ceiling with a wistful look on his face. "That's a shame. The food was quite good."

No longer the untried youth who was stumbling around the borderless world, Draco could discern at what was left unsaid by Harry. In more ways than one, it was no longer feasible for them to share a bag of fish and chips in between pointless banters as they had done so in the past. A chance encounter aboard this very same bus one afternoon in the summer of their youth was their prelude; and now a chance encounter upon the bus that was filled with vignettes of their escapade was all they had left.

Narrowing his stormy grey eyes, Draco chewed on his lips in uncertainty for some moment, before he finally asked, "Why are you here?"

Slowly Harry tilted his head and directed his gaze upon Draco, his form so still that he might have been no more than a static image from a slide projector. The corner of his lips turned upward almost wickedly; those ink green pupils of his seemed nearly swallowed by mist. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Harry spoke light-heartedly as if in jest, "I should've kidnapped you when you refused to run away with me. I could've stunned you, and then revived you when we were thousand miles away in the middle of nowhere."

At length, a smile had graced upon Draco's face, albeit a sardonic smile peppered with a tinge of bitterness. "Are you here to take me away?"

"If I say yes, will you come with me?" Harry countered Draco's query with a question of his own.

It was a favourite joke of his, one that neither of them ever laughed at. Refusal was the only response Harry had ever extracted from Draco, a conclusion he had surmised even before those foolish words left his mouth; that was why he could only speak of it as a joke, if only to preserve his petty pride.

Words tumbled naturally out of Draco's mouth, a reprise of the same old tune like a broken recording, no matter that the words tasted like ashes in his mouth as always. "Very funny. But I must decline; I'm not good at dying."

Since time past Draco had detected the genuine gravity behind Harry's seemingly playful prank, and yet he had feigned oblivion; for one of them must remain awake from the whimsical dream they had woven around themselves like a protective cocoon. Then again, there was little meaning left in this silly exchange of theirs now.

The boy, whose time had frozen forever ever since that hateful rainy night ten years ago, chuckled cynically to himself, a hollow sound so unlike his usual self. Sadness did not intrude into his mind; he merely felt a sense of finality. "Sorry, it was a bad joke. So," Harry spread his arms wide as though he was about to take a bow before his phantom audience, "this is it?"

"If you wanted it to be." Rising from his seat, Draco firmly planted his hands on either side of the armchair occupied by Harry, and held those hazy green pupils in his sharp gaze. In a barely audible whisper, he declared, "If I tell you to go with me, what would you do?"

A look of surprise flashed across Harry's youthful face, before it was overtaken by chagrin and incredulity. "It won't last, Draco."

"Nothing ever does," Draco retorted, before leaning forward until his lips grazed upon a touch of frost; it was like being caressed by icy, inconsiderate rain.

Coldness was the only tangible proof of Harry's presence before him, and not in a remote sea of memories that was growing ever more muddled as intolerable days lengthened to intolerable years. It was the only solid thread left of Harry's he could hold on to, but it would do; he would not ask for anything more.

When Draco at last moved away from Harry, Harry let out a peal of dry laughter. No exacting scale of this world or the next could measure his overflowing longing to run a finger over Draco's pale cheek, and yet with great effort he refrained from getting carried away by his impulse. Even if this interlude of theirs was no more than an ephemeral illusion, he desired to keep it from crumbling for as long as he could will it.

"You know the answer already, don't you?" chided the spectre, a smile encompassing every trickle of emotions remained in his lifeless heart flitted onto his face. "You've always known."

"True." And Draco, straightening his back beneath the scrutiny of haunting green, picked up the bouquet of white and blue by the stem, unmindful of a single blue iris that had escaped the confines of the wrapping and fallen onto the ground soundlessly. With a ghost of a smile, he said quietly to this apparition of his, "Happy Deathday, Harry."

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: An awfully early Christmas ghost story that is neither frightening nor Christmas-like. And in case I haven't made clear of the rendezvous mentioned in the summary line, Draco was on his way to visit Harry's grave, hence the bouquet. By the way, the flower language for iris is hope. Finally, thank you very much for reading.


End file.
